A New Eden

by Quent Cordair

  Her eyes, pleading, sought out the man on the cross. The man on the cross looked away, hanging his head. Her eyes sought the heavens. There was no booming voice from above.

  A woman began to sob quietly.

  Paige could hear the siren of the ambulance as it worked its way up the road, through the procession. But she knew it was too late.

  Thirteen

  Simon looked at the clock. It was twenty past three in the morning. He still couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t stop seeing the blood. He could still feel it on his hands, though he had scrubbed them thoroughly, three times.

  “There must be blood!” Honesto had said. And there had been blood, Honesto’s blood – not on the cross, not on the summit of the Hill, but on the foot of the Hill at least, there had been blood. Sister Johnson had handed her red-soaked shawl to Simon as she exchanged it for a fresh one from another woman, trying to staunch the life draining from Honesto, pooling beneath him on the road. Simon had overheard a medical technician from the ambulance suggest later that the glass must have severed an artery.

  With the spilling of Honesto’s blood, something had changed. The boy from the poor village halfway around the world, the boy who had been in the valley less than a year, the boy who was no one, really, somehow had changed everything.

  Simon lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering at it all. Honesto’s humble background was not unlike that of Christ’s. Was that why God had worked through Honesto instead of through someone such as, say, himself?

  A detective and a crime-scene investigator had come to the room that evening, accompanied by two Angels. The detective had asked Simon about his roommate. Simon had told what he knew. As it turned out, he knew quite a lot. Honesto Buenaflor Tolosa was a talker. He had told Simon all about his ten siblings, eight of whom were still living, all in the same remote village in which they’d been born. He had told of the absentee father who worked, when he could find work, in Manila or Australia; of his mother, who had died in the monsoon flood when Honesto was only five; of the village’s tiny Flock mission that was his second home; of the church members, none wealthy, who had scraped and saved enough to send Honesto across the ocean to Aurum Valley for schooling and leadership training, in hopes that one day Honesto might be their pastor, if God willed it.

  Though Simon was pained to admit it, his roommate had been the most devoted and enthusiastic Christian that Simon had ever known. Honesto prayed more than any of the other students in the dorms. He studied harder. He gave of himself until there was nothing more to give, volunteering for any chore or service, no matter how menial, mundane, or distasteful, from washing dishes in the kitchen to cleaning the communal bathroom at the end of the hall. He was kind, honest, and above all, he was thoroughly humble.

  As Simon was relating all this, the detective, sensing perhaps a vein of something other than simple grief in Simon’s heart, delicately pursued a line of enquiry – but no, Simon couldn’t have harmed a hair on Honesto’s head. He was mortified that the detective could even imagine such a thing. Besides, who but Honesto himself could have forced him to walk miles with glass shards in his sandals, shards that had cut anew with each step? No, Simon had known nothing of Honesto’s intention to do what he did that day. Simon certainly had had nothing to do with it. But then why, as he lay awake in the dark, was he still scrubbing his hands on the sheets, trying to wipe away the blood?

  Simon shuddered. He couldn’t imagine how Honesto had borne the pain. The soles of his own feet flinched beneath the sheets, the muscles of his legs contracting reflexively with each imagined step.

  The crucifixion ceremony had never recovered from the incident. By the time the ambulance was taking Honesto away, the police had taped off the area and were taking witness accounts. The sheriff arrived and asked that everyone not being held for questioning leave the property. The highest-ranking Angel present, playing the captain of the cavalry, along with the most senior Church elder, playing the role of Peter, protested strongly: in no one’s living memory had the Flock ever left the West Gate on Good Friday until after sunset. The cross simply couldn’t be, and wouldn’t be, lowered until then. Simon overheard a rumor that the sheriff claimed it was the property owners who requested the Flock’s removal.

  Calls were made, earpieces consulted. Simon had missed how the confrontation was resolved – he had been asked to escort two distraught ladies back down the hill – but he heard later that the Angels managed to delay the Flock’s departure just long enough that the cross wasn’t lowered until sunset, as tradition and proper respect for the observance required.

  Simon himself had been part of the Passion procession and raising of the cross at the West Gate every year since before he could remember. There had never been the least problem or complaint from the Hales. But now, with the new golf course having been built and the new homes rising, apparently things were changing. It worried him – yet somehow it excited him too: things were changing, finally, in his own lifetime. Something was happening. He could feel it. He could feel the spirit of the Lord moving.

  In the darkness, he looked over at Honesto’s empty, neatly made bed. A stab of regret and shame pierced his heart. Why hadn’t he been closer with his roommate? Why had he kept his distance? He wished now that he had made an effort to be a better friend, to ask more questions, to be more supportive, less self-absorbed. But as much as Honesto had talked – and talked and talked – Honesto had never said a word to Simon, or to anyone else apparently, about what he was planning to do that day. Maybe he hadn’t really planned it – a possibility the detective had raised. Simon hadn’t thought of the possibility until now, but maybe Honesto had gotten the idea from the passage in Reverend Lundquist’s book, about crawling across a thousand miles of broken glass if it would save one sinner’s soul. Honesto had often expressed frustration at not being able to do enough. Regardless of how much he dedicated and devoted himself to God’s work, he felt he always fell short in some way, to some degree. But everyone felt that way, didn’t they? At least everyone who was honest with himself. There was only so much one could do, wasn’t there? There was only so much . . . And no matter how much one did, it was never enough. Everyone knew there was always more one could do, more one could give. Always.

  But on this day of days, this most sacred day of the year for the Flock, Honesto had done and given more than anyone, demonstrating a level of devotion and a willingness to endure pain and hardship above and beyond what even the brother playing the Prophet Obadiah endured in carrying the cross to the Hill – as laborious and difficult as that must have been.

  The detective and the crime-scene investigator had collected and taken away what remained of the broken glass they found in the bottom of the room’s trashcan. The Angels had filled two boxes with Honesto’s clothes and the few personal items from his locker, and then had taken them away. There was nothing left of Simon’s roommate – only the empty bed, the undented pillow under the white moon, and the photo, tucked into the frame of the mirror, of the two of them standing next to the bus at the winter retreat, ankle deep in the first snow Honesto had ever seen. Honesto was beaming; Simon was looking loftily bemused at his roommate’s innocence.

  Simon wished he’d asked the Angels to leave something more, maybe Honesto’s Bible, or his collection of rocks in the jar, or –

  He sat up. Slipping the sheets aside, he got up and, without turning on the light, quietly carried one of the desk chairs to the wall next to the foot of Honesto’s bed. Standing on the chair, rising onto his toes, he pushed a ceiling tile up and shifted it aside. He reached and searched until he felt the edge of the lidded cigar box. Bringing it down, he set it carefully on Honesto’s bed and found the penlight in his desk drawer.

  Honesto had once shown him a few things from the box: the homemade crucifix he had worn when he was Catholic, before converting to Flock; his handmade wooden top, wound with frayed string; the well-used slingshot, its leather pouch made from a shoe tongue, its rubber band fro
m a bicycle-tire tube; a faded photo of a young couple on their wedding day, beaming and hopeful – the only photo Honesto had of his mother. Simon removed the items, one by one. Beneath these were things Simon hadn’t seen, things Honesto hadn’t shared.

  There were clippings from a Filipino newspaper showing men participating in something akin to the Flock’s Good Friday procession – but the man carrying the cross and those following were naked to the waist, their backs bloodied as they lashed themselves with handheld whips. There were photos of men with thorny crowns smashed down on their heads, blood streaming down their faces. Some, like the Flock’s prophet, were tied with rope to crosses, raised to the sky. Others appeared to have real nails driven through their hands. Real nails. Real blood. At least it appeared to be real blood. A second article, cut from an English-language paper, confirmed that, indeed, the nails and blood were genuine.

  Simon shivered, caught between fascination and revulsion. Hearing a noise outside the door, he switched off the penlight. The footsteps passed. It was only someone going to the bathroom down the hall. He heard the toilet flush, the feet shuffle by again, a door shut quietly.

  In the bottom of the box, beneath the photos and newspaper articles, was tucked an old clothbound book, its corners softened and worn. On the faded green cover, flecks of tarnished silver clung in the crevices of the embossed Flock symbol, the cross on the triangular hill. The words beneath were in a language Simon didn’t recognize but presumed to be Honesto’s native tongue, Tagalog. On the inside of the cover was penned, in thick and thin script, a date a century past, next to an unpronounceable name.

  Simon leafed carefully through the tissue-thin pages, some of which had come loose from the binding but were still tucked in their rightful places. The hymns were in the foreign language too – probably the very words Simon had heard Honesto singing gently, joyfully, to the familiar Flock melodies as he showered or dressed or cleaned the room.

  Simon realized, with a stab of anxiety, that he didn’t want to inform the Angels or the police about the box. But he couldn’t risk being caught with it either, couldn’t risk the appearance that he had been hiding it. The personal items should be returned to Honesto’s family. Maybe the box could be left in its hiding place in the ceiling, at least for a while. Simon might not have to lie about it, if it were ever found. He could feign ignorance, reasonably enough. Putting most of the items back inside, he closed the lid, struggling with the decision until he met himself halfway, reaching a compromise. He would turn the box over to the Angels tomorrow. They could decide whether to inform the police, though what good could come of doing so, he couldn’t imagine. Honesto was gone. Nothing would bring him back.

  The two items he hadn’t returned to the box wouldn’t be missed, he rationalized, though not without a pang of guilt. It couldn’t possibly matter to anyone, he told himself, while knowing that the truth or falsehood of the justification had no bearing on his choice or his action. He slipped the newspaper clipping, featuring the photo of a bloodied man being nailed to a cross, inside the front cover of the hymnal. Extinguishing the penlight, he tucked the hymnal beneath his pillow.

  When he lay down, his ear to the pillow, the music of the Flock in a distant land was close beneath. He could hear the songs and the accompaniment of the tinny upright piano emanating from the little white church, just as Honesto had described it, beneath the palms by the shore. In his waking dream, they were singing of the most sacred things, like the sacred image Simon would never forget, of Skye holding Honesto, cradling his head in her arms, tenderly wiping his face and forehead as her eyes lifted to heaven in search of intervention, pleading silently that God would not let the boy die. But Honesto had died. He had sacrificed himself. Like Christ, Honesto had given his all. And he had died cradled in Skye Emberly’s arms.

  The voices sang on in Simon’s mind until the gray light came up in the room and the somber morning prayers of Black Saturday were creeping beneath the door.

  He wondered how long Honesto’s bed would remain empty.

  * * *

  The plaza was empty, the town eerily quiet. It was as though a deadly disease or a pack of predators had swept through, killing most of the residents, leaving the rest cowering behind locked doors. Though it was a sunny, beautiful mid-afternoon, the stores and restaurants were closed and darkened, except for the coffee shop and the Elbow Room. From her window, Paige watched a man emerge from the bar to light a cigarette and lean against the wall. She went down and made her way across, hoping the kitchen would be open.

  That morning she’d caught the rebroadcast of yesterday’s procession. She saw herself several times, just behind the main cast, then closer to the front, at the golf-course gate. Not surprisingly, the interruption of the procession by Eileen had been edited out. There was no evidence of the heckling boy, Toby, and his friends. The bizarre and tragic ending, too, had been cleverly cut and patched with what was presumably footage from previous years – generic, longer shots of the cross, of the cast, of the crowd of followers. The ceremony was presented as having been brought to its usual triumphant conclusion at sunset, with the Flock worshiping en masse at the lowering of the cross. The limp body of the Prophet was taken down and carried away by the disciples, with Mary and her supporters trailing in mourning. There was no evidence of the young man who had died in the shadow of the cross or of the Flock’s early evacuation. There was nothing of the police or ambulance. Those watching the broadcast around the world would never know that the day had gone as anything but planned.

  The front window of the Elbow Room was boarded up with plywood. Paige foggily recalled a crash of breaking glass waking her in the night, the clanging of the alarm, the flashing lights of a patrol car.

  Despite the damage, the bar was busier than usual. Sandal was handling all of the customers, with the assistance of only a dishwasher and a grill cook. Paige found a place at the bar.

  “I thought you might show this afternoon.” Sandal paused in front of her, giving Paige her full attention. “About the only other kitchen open today is at The Sophia. Here, try this – ” Sandal poured a glass of wine. “I asked for a couple of bottles of good rosé so you wouldn’t have to settle for the usual swill down here if you wanted wine.”

  “That was very thoughtful, thank you.” She tried it. “Oh, this is nice. . . . So, what did I miss about today? I assume everything being closed is related to Passion Week somehow, but I don’t remember seeing anything on the schedule for today.”

  “That’s because it’s Black Saturday. The Flock is in mourning. They fast and pray at home, or wherever they’re staying, from sunset Friday through sunrise Sunday morning.”

  “That explains the ghost town. Sorry about the broken window. I’m pretty sure I heard it happen. I definitely heard the alarm.”

  “The owners are out of town for the week, which leaves me at the top of the alarm company’s list. I had to come in to deal with it.”

  “I’m so sorry. You probably haven’t had much sleep then. I wish I’d known, I would have come over and helped.”

  “Thanks, I know you would have. It wasn’t that big of a deal – the police seem to want to dismiss it as just kids being kids, but . . . I don’t know. You didn’t happen to see anything, did you?”

  “Sorry, no. I got up and looked, but all I saw was the patrol car. Did they use a brick?”

  “A brick? No, but interesting you’d suggest that. Give me a second – ” She picked up a plate of chicken wings from the kitchen on the way to delivering a tray of beers to a table. When she returned, she asked, “Wasn’t it a brick that was thrown into the Ardi?

  “Yes, with a note quoting scripture attached.”

  “No, this was a wine bottle. It burst on the floor and splashed what smelled like gas mixed with kerosene or something. Even after I got everything cleaned up, it took another hour for the place to air out. What was left of the bottle rolled up against the foot of the bar. This was sticking out of the top of it.” F
rom behind the bar she retrieved a torn rag pulled through a hole in a cork, the cork still lodged in the bottle’s broken neck. One end of the rag was burned. Paige sniffed the other end and pulled away, her nose crinkling.

  “You were damned lucky you didn’t have a fire. Looks like attempted arson to me. The police didn’t want to collect this as evidence?”

  “The officer didn’t seem terribly interested, actually. I showed it to him, but I’m pretty sure he was Flock. He probably wouldn’t have minded so much if we had burned to the ground. He wouldn’t come more than a few steps inside, like he might be struck by lightning for being in such a place.”

  Paige shook her head. “Was there a note?”

  “There was a piece of paper lying in the fuel, but if there was any writing, it must have dissolved.”

  “Do you still have it?”

  Sandal picked through the glass in the trash can and handed Paige a creased, wrinkled sheet. It still smelled strongly of fuel. Paige examined it while Sandal tended her customers. The paper was the same size as the note that had been attached to the brick thrown into the Ardi Beltza. She held it up to the light and brushed her fingertip over the surface, thinking she might be able to feel what she couldn’t see – faint lines, grooves. She asked, when Sandal returned, “Would you mind if I take this back up to my place?”

  “If the police don’t want it – sure, why not? You think there was writing on it?”

  “Maybe. I’ll try to find out. I have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

  “As every good reporter should.”

  “Wait, how did you know – ?”

  “Ian mentioned it.”

  “Small town . . .”

  Sandal smiled and slid a menu in front of her. “Let me know what you’d like, hun. Pablo makes a good burger.” She left to check her tables again.

  Paige sipped her rosé, turning the slip of paper over in her hand. Her mind had wandered back to what had happened to the young man in the procession the day before – when she felt a presence, a male presence, occupy the barstool next to her. Not wishing to invite conversation, she shifted and turned slightly away.